In Assisi one may read again the Franciscan legends in their proper settings.  I should like to think that my pleasure in Assisi arose from the fact that I saw some one there who reminded me of St. Francis.  But I was not so fortunate.  If one is anxious to come in contact with the spirit of St. Francis, freed from its mediaeval limitations, a visit to Hull House, Chicago, would be more rewarding.

But it was not the spirit of St. Francis, but his limitations, that we were after.  Assisi has preserved them all.  We see the gray old town on the hillside, the narrow streets, the old walls.  We are beset by swarms of beggars.  They are not like the half-starved creatures one may see in the slums of northern cities.  They are very likable.  They are natural worshipers of my Lady Poverty.  They have not been spoiled by commonplace industrialism or scientific philanthropy.  One is taken back into the days when there was a natural affinity between saints and beggars.  The saints would joyously give away all that they had, and the beggars would as joyously accept it.  After the beggars had used up all the saints had given them, the saints would go out and beg for more.  The community, you say, would be none the better.  Perhaps not.  But the moment you begin to talk about the community you introduce ideas that are modern and disturbing.  One thing is certain, and that is that if Assisi were more thrifty, it would be less illuminating historically.

St. Francis might come back to Assisi and take up his work as he left it.  But I sought in vain for John Calvin in Geneva.  The city was too prosperous and gay.  The cheerful houses, the streets with their cosmopolitan crowds, the parks, the schools, the university, the little boats skimming over the lake, all bore witness to the well-being of to-day.  But what of yesterday?  The citizens were celebrating the anniversary of Jean Jacques Rousseau.  I realized that it was not yesterday but the day before yesterday that I was seeking.  Where was the stern little city which Calvin taught and ruled?  The place that knew him knows him no more.

Disappointed in my search for Calvin, I sought compensation in Servetus.  I found the stone placed by modern Calvinists to mark the spot where the Spanish heretic was burned.  On it they had carved an inscription expressing their regret for the act of intolerance on the part of the reformer, and attributing the blame to the age in which he lived.  But even this did not satisfy modern Geneva.  The inscription had been chipped away in order to give place I was told, to something more historically accurate.

But whether Calvin was to blame, or the sixteenth century, did not seem to matter.  The spot was so beautiful that it seemed impossible that anything tragical could ever have happened here.  A youth and maiden were sitting by the stone, engaged in a most absorbing conversation.  Of one thing I was certain, that the theological differences between Calvin and Servetus were nothing to them.  They had something more important to think about—­at least for them.